


(Does It Almost Feel Like) Nothing Changed At All

by xianvar



Series: June Special: Bingo [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xianvar/pseuds/xianvar
Summary: “Scorp, don’t be a wanker!” He searches the branches above him (nothing to see), pats at the air where the ladder is supposed to be (also nothing) and even reaches out with his magic the way they’ve learned in Charms just recently (nothing but the faint trace of an anti-apparation ward and the sweet and fluffy nothingness of the camouflage charm, reminiscent of candyfloss).Silence.“Scorp.” He tries for put-upon, but it comes out more as a whine, “please let me up?” He’s not a fan of begging, but he also doesn’t despise it was much as Scorpius does, and as such it’s honestly a small price to pay (he tries not to think of the prices he has paid to please Scorpius).





	(Does It Almost Feel Like) Nothing Changed At All

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Pompeii_ by _Bastille_.
> 
> Written for the FFFC Bingo.

“You buttface, that’s cheating!”

His only answer is Laughter drifting down from where he knows the tree house should be, and he gives an inarticulate shout in response.

Uncle Ron pokes his head out of the house, a faint look of concern on his face. He feels guilty almost immediately, though the irrational anger is still present. “Everything alright, Al?”

Albus scowls and throws his hands up. “That wanker has switched the camo on _before I got up there_ ,” he complains, and his indignity is further driven along when Uncle Ron just grins and another bout of laughter drifts down.

“Ah, well, then good luck to you,” Uncle Ron says, and disappears inside again. Albus suppresses the urge to stomp his foot.

“Scorp, don’t be a wanker!” He searches the branches above him (nothing to see), pats at the air where the ladder is supposed to be (also nothing) and even reaches out with his magic the way they’ve learned in Charms just recently (nothing but the faint trace of an anti-apparation ward and the sweet and fluffy nothingness of the camouflage charm, reminiscent of candyfloss).

Silence.

“Scorp.” He tries for put-upon, but it comes out more as a whine, “ _please_ let me up?” He’s not a fan of begging, but he also doesn’t despise it was much as Scorpius does, and as such it’s honestly a small price to pay (he tries not to think of the prices he _has_ paid to please Scorpius).

The ladder materializes in front of him in a soft, gentle breeze of realization, and Albus scowls at the piece of furniture as though the charm on the tree house is its fault.

The anti-apparition ward is still up, though, and as such he has little more choice than to climb some 20 feet of ladder. Darn that Malfoy, seriously.

He reaches the top with an expression on his face that is probably just shy of mutinous and a light sheen of sweat on his body, gritting his teeth as he heaves himself into the tree house.

“You made it,” Scorpius says, still grinning but looking relaxed and content, and Albus can feel his anger evaporate. It so often does with Scorpius, and sometimes Albus wishes he could—could be less quick with his emotions maybe, or not give in so quickly, but it’s always been this way, and he doesn’t even know how it would be if it were different.

There are scones and what is probably iced tea waiting for him, and the nostalgia that sweeps over him almost bowls him over. He flops into one of the mountains of cushions on the floor, just staring up at the ceiling for a long moment.

He feels empty all of a sudden, aching for days gone by. In mere weeks they will start their last year at Hogwarts, and after that—who knows how things will be? It is here, in the sanctuary of his childhood days, built by his dad just for him (though he did let his siblings come up here sometimes), that he can admit he is—not scared, but maybe… maybe a little worried about what the future will hold.

“Hey.” Scorpius’s face appears just above his own, still so pale even in the height of summer, but freckled liberally. Scorpius never gets a tan, but he freckles like crazy, much to his dad’s dismay. _Freckles do not become a Malfoy_ , Mr. Malfoy would say, but Albus has always found himself thinking that they did become Scorpius.

It’s no different here, except that now—now he has the permission to reach up, trace them with his fingertips, as though he can feel them through the skin. It makes Scorpius smile, a little bashful but ultimately pleased, and Albus moves his hand to the nape of Scorpius’s neck and pulls him in.

Braced on one hand, Scorpius keeps the kiss light, drawing back whenever Albus tries to deepen it. Albus whines, which makes Scorpius sit back enough he can see the grin on his face. They look at each other for a couple of long seconds, and they probably look incredibly sappy, but then, who is there to judge?

“There’s food,” Scorpius says, looking so delighted that Albus can’t help but smile back.

He pokes his boyfriend in the ribs. “Yeah, you look like you need it.”

“Hey,” Scorpius complains, batting at Albus’s hand where it is still poised to poke him again. “I’m _trying_ , okay?”

“Try harder,” Albus tells him, and then pushes himself up. The scones do look delicious, and with all the Quidditch they’ve been playing lately, Scorpius isn’t the only one who should watch out to keep his weight. What a hardship.

There is indeed iced tea, in one of the self-refilling jugs that Aunt Hermione has bespelled, and some chocolate cookies straight from Dad’s favourite bakery, though it’s all gone way too fast—well, not the iced-tea, but drinking up an infinite supply is not something either of them has managed, for all that they’ve been trying to beat Aunt Hermione’s charm for the past six years.

“Oof,” says Scorpius, and licks his lips to catch the last traces of chocolate. He doesn’t quite succeed, and Albus decides to help him. By crawling over and kissing the chocolate off, because it’s an opportunity too great to pass off.

“Isn’t that gross?” Scorpius asks when they part, and Albus just grins at him. A little gross hasn’t really ever bothered him, and this has been far from gross, anyway. He doesn’t even need to say anything; Scorpius just groans and lets himself fall back onto the pillows behind him. “You’re terrible.”

Albus laughs, his good spirits without doubt restored. Maybe it was the lack of food, now that he thinks about it. Scorpius has raised himself onto his elbows, grinning at him, and Albus dives forward into another heap of pillows, landing with his head just inches away from Scorpius. It’s easy to lean forward and peck him on the lips, and Scorpius sinks back down, chuckling. Albus doesn’t go with him, resting his chin on Scorpius’s chest instead.

Scorpius puts up with that for all of a minute, before he gently pushes at Albus’s chin. “It’s pointy,” he says as he wriggles to turn onto his side, facing Albus. Albus puts his chin on his hands instead and just looks at Scorpius; they’re close enough that he can see every single speck of blue in Scorpius’s mostly grey eyes, and he could easily get himself lost in them. They remind him of stormy nights, some of them spent in this very tree house, safe as they watched the world howl around them.

“We gonna stay out here tonight?”

Albus shrugs, which is not as easy as it sounds lying on his belly. “I don’t see why not.”

Scorpoius throws him an almost sardonic smile. “So very romantic, Potter.”

“Hey!” Albus considers shoving at his shoulder, but the effort to get his arm out from under his head is larger than he is prepared to give right now.

Scorpius, because he knows Albus too well, grins at that. “I love you too,” he says, not quite flippantly but casually, and Albus can feel his whole face go soft at those words.

“Love you too,” he says, and he is barely even embarrassed by his own tone of voice.

He doesn’t know quite when they became this sappy, but it’s also not something he minds—as long as they’re not in the sight lines of people prone to teasing, such as that terrible demon spawn who calls herself his cousin.

Scorpius contorts himself a little more but manages to come close enough to kiss Albus again, and Albus surges into the kiss, getting up on his knees so he has his hands free and can cradle Scorpius’s head in his hands, move them both so that Scorpius is lying on his back and Albus is kneeling above him.

They spend the rest of the afternoon like this, lounging on the pillowed floor of the tree house, trading lazy kisses and gentle touches, and when they finally get to removing their clothes, hands wandering lower, caressing each inch of revealed skin, it’s unhurried still, more of an inevitable conclusion than a desperate grab for a dream that might slip away any second, and Albus can’t think of a place he would rather be right then.

They don’t get much sleep that night, tangled together on the heaps of pillows (after some neatly executed _Scourgifies_ , because they aren’t the only one using the tree house, and also, everything else would have been really gross) and being sappy fools together; because this is their last summer like this, and here are so many memories packed up and wound together—fights and laughter and fleeing Albus’s siblings and rabid fans obsessed with their dads—and Albus already finds himself missing the persons they are right now, the kids they have been.

“You really are the best,” Albus says when his eyes are finally drooping, his head on Scorpius’s chest (which is surprisingly comfortable if Scorpius being mostly just skin and bones and some light quidditch muscles is taken into account).

Scorpius chuckles, a rumbling sound Albus feels more than hears, one hand coming up to card through his hair. If Albus could purr, he would. He’s always been a sucker for Scorpius playing with his hair.

“I’m also very glad I met you when I did,” Scorpius tells him, and all Albus can think is that he could listen forever to Scorpius like this, voice deep and sated. He falls asleep like that, Scorpius’s voice a low hum under his ear, his fingers gently scraping over his scalp, secure in the knowledge that Scorpius will still be there tomorrow, and the day after, and hopefully for many more days to come.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to, come say hi at my [DreamWidth](https://kephiso.dreamwidth.org)!


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